


the long way home

by Xenon912



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Aftermath of Mass Killings, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Autistic Sabine Wren, Bipolar Disorder, Crack Treated Seriously, Ezra Bridger Has PTSD, Force-Sensitive Leia Organa, Force-Sensitive Tristan Wren, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Inquisitorius - Freeform, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jedi Culture, Kanan Jarrus Has PTSD, Mandalore, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Mania, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Star Wars Rebels: Spark of Rebellion, RIP Sabine's Mental Health, Sabine Wren Has PTSD, Self-Harm, Slavery, Suicide Attempt, The Duchess - Weapon, Torture, Ursa Wren Has PTSD, extremely seriously, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenon912/pseuds/Xenon912
Summary: “Your daughter is on the verge of becoming an enemy of the Empire. She will be hunted day and night until she is dead or until the Empire falls. Which would you prefer?”AU. Instead of exiling her daughter, Ursa Wren reaches out to the Rebellion to rescue her daughter from the Academy. The cost may be higher than any of them can bear. Featuring Force-Sensitive Tristan (and Ursa), spymaster Alrich, Ahsoka as a reluctant master, and a Rebellion backed by ancient Mandalorian nobility.[Read notes at the beginning of each chapter for trigger warnings. I'm so serious, do not skip them.]
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano & Korkie Kryze, Ahsoka Tano & Sabine Wren, Ahsoka Tano & Ursa Wren, Alrich Wren/Ursa Wren, Bail Organa & Ahsoka Tano, Bail Organa & Leia Organa, Bo-Katan Kryze/Ursa Wren (Implied), Ezra Bridger & Kanan Jarrus, Ezra Bridger/Tristan Wren, Kanan Jarrus & Sabine Wren, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Sabine Wren & Alrich Wren, Sabine Wren & Tristan Wren, Sabine Wren & Ursa Wren, Space Family (Star Wars Rebels), Tristan Wren & Ahsoka Tano
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	1. the empty city

**Author's Note:**

> Special shoutout to the Phoenix Nest Discord, who has been getting snippets of this with absolutely 0 context. I know you guys like angst, so here's some!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS: Aftermath of a mass killing, referenced coercion of a child.**

Mandalore was cold at night.

Ahsoka pulled her cloak tighter around herself to keep out the wind. The currents picked up the thin sand that covered Mandalore’s surface, sending it swirling around her boots. There was no sound, no life for miles, save for the rumble of the familiar speederbike cresting the hill to meet her. She stood in silence until the bike stopped a couple meters from her, kicking up another wave of dust as the driver stopped it with his boot.

"You're late," she greeted. "You know I don't like the weather here."

"No one likes the weather here," the driver replied. She doubted he could see much, at least without his helm’s night vision, but the blue and white of his _beskar'gam_ were vivid as ever to her sharper eyes. He pulled off his helmet. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise," she said, allowing herself a small smile. Korkie Kryze had grown his hair out since she'd last seen him, his bangs now covering the top of the ragged burn scar that twisted down his face. It was only one of many scars he'd sustained during their fight against the Empire. "You expressed... _some_ urgency in your message."

It was an understatement, even for her. She’d been half-convinced a black hole had opened up over Sundari.

Korkie pulled a datapad from his saddlebags and held it out to her. "This has...everything."

"Everything on what?" Ahsoka took the datapad and unlocked it, pulling up the first diagram. The specifications, written in Mando’a, meant nothing to her, a mishmash of technical jargon and mathematical formulas. "What is this thing?"

"They call it the Duchess," Korkie said. She wasn't imagining the fear in his voice. "It reacts with beskar."

Ahsoka swiped to the next file, a video. The two stood in silence as she watched it. "...This can't be real," she said at last.

"It is. I visited Melisende to see for myself." He reached over and swiped to a third file. "Look who's credited as its creator."

Ahsoka read the name, then read it again. "That's..." She read it a third time, sure she was hallucinating. "That's not possible. She's _fourteen_." _She would never build such an abomination._

“Is it really impossible?” Korkie asked gently. “The Imperials can convince you to do anything. Especially impressionable, talented children. They’re the future of the Empire.” His voice was tinged with disdain. “Anyone can be bought, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka turned the datapad off, grinding her teeth. “Why did you give me this?”

Korkie met her gaze. “I don’t believe in killing children, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He ran his fingers over the scar on his face. “Someone needs to get her out.”

“We’d bring the full ire of the Saxons down on her family’s heads.”

Korkie raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying we should leave her there?”

Ahsoka scowled. “Never.”

* * *

The only real difference she could see between Sundari’s geodome and Melisende was that Melisende’s was significantly smaller.

There was also a giant hole in it.

Ahsoka stared at it as Korkie fiddled with something in the shadow of the geodome. “Did the Duchess do that?”

Korkie glanced up briefly. “No,” he said. “TIEs. Look at the scorch marks.”

“I don’t have a helmet, Korkie. I can’t see that far.”

Korkie shrugged. “I can’t help having top-of-the-line equipment.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes at him. “I remember you dragging your feet to even accept your father’s armor, Korkie. What happened to your pacifist ideals?”

He looked up longer then, his black visor empty and expressionless. “My ideals died with Satine,” he said. “This is all you get.”

Ahsoka rested a hand on his bucket. “I wouldn’t ask for anyone else, ‘Kie.”

She couldn’t see his face, but the Force stirred at his quiet relief. He turned back to the panel he was messing with and gave one of the exposed cables a good yank. With a hiss, the panel sank back and slid behind another, leaving an opening just big enough for Korkie to get his bike through. “Come on.”

He led her through a maze of seemingly-identical tunnels which spit them out on Melisende’s ground level. The buildings in Melisende were not unlike the ones in Sundari, tall and boxy, decorated with the Iron Heart, but the windows were tinted reddish instead of blue—the color of the Priest Clan, which had its stronghold in Melisende. She could see it towering over the rest of the towers, an imposing black mass. The city was empty, however, a thin layer of dust settled over the unnervingly-still streets. There was no damage anywhere she could see; it was as if the entire population of the city had simply evaporated.

“The Priests,” she said. Her voice was catastrophically loud. “Are there any left?”

Korkie nodded. “The Count Priest lives,” he said, “in Imperial custody, along with all the other survivors.”

“The Duchess only reacts against beskar,” she said. “How many were...affected?”

“The Priests are one of our oldest and most militant clans,” Korkie explained briefly. “Their children wear the armor from age thirteen, and they never take it off.”

 _Force._ She closed her eyes, reaching out to the empty city with her mind. She breathed in, smelling the lightest note of ash, a distant echo of screams. “This was a massacre.” Her chest tightened. “Alrich was a Priest. They set the Duchess on Sabine’s cousins.”

Korkie pushed his bike behind an empty dumpster. “My mother was a Priest.”

She didn't reply. One of Obi-Wan's first lessons was when to keep quiet, and she hadn't understood it until she'd had to face the victims of the Empire. _“When you cannot make it better,”_ her grandmaster had said, _“do not make it worse. Be quiet, and listen._ ” There was nothing she could possibly say to Korkie that would make him feel better, but many that would make him feel worse.

She reached out and rested her hand against the side of his helmet, as if she were resting it on his cheek. He covered her hand with his. “I’m alright,” he said after a moment. “It’s just…” He spread his arms helplessly. “It’s so hard to believe something like this could even be _built._ ”

“It’s a marvel of engineering,” Ahsoka acquiesced. “Just like so many of the Empire’s shiny toys.”

She let her hand fall away, and Korkie beckoned her down the empty street. “There’s no one inside here, not even ‘troopers,” he explained, perhaps sensing her discomfort. “The Duchess is a Top Secret weapon. I doubt the ‘troopers outside know why they’re guarding this place.”

“How did you get your hands on the files, then?”

Korkie abruptly turned down an alley, and she followed him. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

They wove their way through the city in a pattern that seemed to have no meaning. Korkie stopped occasionally, turning the dial on his left earcap, then continued, sometimes doubling back or walking them down an alley Ahsoka was _sure_ they’d already crossed. Everything looked the same, like each block had been copied and pasted. At last they stood at the foot of the Priest stronghold. It was even more hulking and oppressive up close, a terraced compound wrapped in sturdy black stone walls. Korkie jetpacked over it, and Ahsoka jumped after him.

The scene she found was nearly indescribable.

At one time, this must have been the Priest’s front courtyard. At her feet lay a red-and-white helmet, its bottom half disintegrated, leaving only a melted puddle of transparisteel where the visor should have been. A thick layer of ash covered the stones, mixed with blackened and charred pieces of armor. Ahsoka stepped forward and knelt to pick one up. It came apart in her hand, releasing a pungent odor. It was a smell she hadn’t sensed since the Clone Wars—the smell of burnt flesh. She stayed kneeling, staring at the ashes in her hands with wide-eyed horror.

Korkie rested a hand on her shoulder. “We have to keep moving. My source is waiting for us.”

Ahsoka closed her eyes and exhaled, letting her feelings out into the Force. It was another lesson she hadn’t understood until after the Jedi were dead. She stood, letting the ashes fall from her hand and rejoin its brethren. “Let’s go.”

The doors into the Priest stronghold were unlocked, scorched where the Priest guards had been immolated. Inside, the compound was dark and silent. Korkie walked surely down a long hall and into one of dozens of identical doors. This was the communications room. Korkie set his helmet on the table and powered up the holotable. He plugged a small commlink into one of the ports, typing something into the console. The hologram warbled to life.

“Ursa,” Ahsoka said, half-rendered speechless. “...You changed your armor.”

“Had to happen eventually,” Ursa replied, ever-acerbic and stubborn. She crossed her arms. “You could have told me it was Ahsoka, Kryze.”

Korkie bowed. “You’ll have to forgive me, Countess,” he said, his voice practiced with its diplomatic smoothness. “Fulcrum’s identity is the Rebellion’s most precious secret.”

That, and the parentage of the Princess of Alderaan. Ahsoka kept that to herself.

Ursa hummed, her golden eyes paler through the holo than they were in real life. It made her gaze deeply discomforting. “Ahsoka. I trust the documents have been delivered to this...Rebellion of yours.”

“They have, Countess. Viceroy Organa leaves for Mandalore tomorrow.”

She raised an eyebrow. She was as unimpressed with Ahsoka’s Core-world companions as she had been last time they spoke, and likely would always be. “What business does the Viceroy have on Mandalore?”

“He’s the safest way to get Sabine off-planet. Or do you _not_ want me to rescue her?”

Ursa flinched, and the hard look Korkie gave her told Ahsoka she may have stepped too far. “I apologize,” Ahsoka said. Ursa scowled at her, which was enough of a signal to keep talking. “Ursa, you and your Clan need to disappear. It is the only way to keep you all from being destroyed.”

“Clan Wren has lived on Krownest for _eleven-hundred years_.”

“Your Grace,” Korkie intervened before Ahsoka’s temper could get the best of her again. “I understand your wish to protect your homeworld. But if you stay on Krownest, your people will be massacred.” He motioned around them. “Do not let the Empire claim the destruction of another ancient Clan.” He hesitated. “ _Mhi gedeti gar._ ” _We beg it of you._

Ursa lowered her head. “I will not just fling my family into the far reaches of space.”

“Of course not,” Ahsoka said. “Kalevala has agreed to take in some of Clan Wren, and the Rebellion has a list of planets with minimal Imperial presence.” Ursa’s shoulders hunched, and Ahsoka could only imagine what it was taking to bite back her pride. “Don’t take it as a handout, Countess. The Rebellion will call on your warriors when the time comes.”

“We are not _Rebels_ , Ahsoka.”

“Your daughter is on the verge of becoming an enemy of the Empire. She will be hunted day and night until she is dead or until the Empire falls. Which would you prefer?”

Korkie gave her another look, one that told her he was rapidly losing patience with both of them. He reminded her rather of Satine, in the dark days of the Clone Wars when the negotiations with the Separatists were half-collapsing in her throne room and the Death Watch had claimed yet more civilian lives in their bloody quest; bone-weary, kept-together only because falling apart was too much work and giving up was not an option.

“Do _not—_ ” Ursa choked on her words and ran a gloved hand through her hair. “Damn you.”

Korkie grabbed Ahsoka by the shoulders and politely pushed her towards the door. “You two clearly have some unresolved issues,” he muttered to her, too quiet for the holo to hear, “so do me and my graying hair a favor and wait outside.”

“You have no idea.”


	2. the academy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this chapter, only twelve year-old Leia.

__ If this fell through Bail had half a mind to mount Ahsoka’s head on his wall in retaliation.

He gazed upon Mandalore’s bleached surface through one of the viewports of the  _ Tantive IV. _ It was just him and Captain Antilles on board— and his daughter, whom he was loath to put in the line of danger. Ahsoka had told him there was nothing to worry about and Bail, albeit hesitantly, was willing to believe her.

Had it been any other kind of mission, Bail would have stayed out of it. His association with Mon Mothma alone was enough to keep the Empire looking over his shoulder, and traveling mysteriously to Mandalore would have raised far too many eyebrows. Unless he used the excuse of touring academies with his daughter.

Leia pressed her nose against the transparisteel. “It’s so...dusty.”

Bail chuckled. “Yes, dear. Nothing can grow on Mandalore’s surface, and its atmosphere no longer supports rain. It’s functionally a desert.”

“Like southern Chandrila?”

“A bit. But life has evolved to survive in the Chandrilan desert. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for Mandalore.”

Leia turned back to him, her nose pink where she had it smushed against the transparisteel. “Why?”

“The Mandalorians are a race—creed, really—of warriors. The barrenness of their homeworld is a result of centuries of constant war.”

“Woah.” 

“An eloquent response, to be sure, little one.”

She turned and gazed up at him with big eyes. “So what are we going to do on Mandalore?”

“We’re going to tour Mandalore’s Imperial Academy. Soon you will be at the age that, if you so choose, you may attend any of the Empire’s academies.”

In the days of the Republic, he might have seriously considered sending Leia away to an off-planet academy. Had the Separatist Crisis never happened, he might have even been willing to send Leia to the Royal Academy of Mandalorian Government, famous for its world-class diplomatic training. Nowadays, such a thing would have been far too dangerous. The farther Leia was from Alderaan, the more she risked being discovered.

“I thought the academies only trained officers,” Leia said. “I don’t want to be in the military.”

Bail smiled. “While that is true of most academies, it’s not true of all of them. Mandalore’s academy also trains diplomats and engineers.”

Leia frowned. “But I don’t  _ want  _ to study at an academy. I want to stay with you.”

He scooped her up, braving Leia’s indignant flailing. “I thought you would say that,” he said, and pressed her to his chest. She tucked her head under his chin, arms still crossed in half-hearted opposition to his babying. “Sweet girl. You still prefer your mother to all your other tutors?”

“She gives me candy when I’m right.”

He laughed into her hair, a bit lightheaded with relief. “I am sure one day you’ll crave some independence, darling.” How he wished he could keep her near forever.

Leia shook her head. “No. I like being with you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “ I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Bail had not been on Sundari since the War had started, but even with his vague, fifteen year-old memories, he could tell the city had changed.

There was a clear line on the docks where new steel and duracrete met older, worn materials, a ragged white hole the size of a small ship in the middle of the dark, faded grey-blue. Ahsoka smirked as she studied it, adjusting her Alderaani Royal Service jacket. “Did you do that?” Bail asked quietly as they passed security, one of the Mandalorian officers eyeing Ahsoka warily.

“Our dear student’s mother did that,” Ahsoka replied. More loudly she said, “Viceroy. Your tour begins in forty-five minutes.”

“Thank you, Captain Ren,” Bail said. “Come along, Leia.”

Leia bounced up to his side and took his offered hand. “Why are there no stormtroopers here, Daddy?”

“A thousand stormtroopers are no match for a single squad of Mandalorian soldiers,” Ahsoka told her, and their Mandalorian escorts shifted happily, pleased at the praise. 

Bail suppressed a smile. Ahsoka rarely spoke of her time on Mandalore, but clearly, her training showed when it counted. “Why?” Leia pressed.

“The Mandalorians have been warriors since before the days of the Old Republic,” Ahsoka explained. “The arts of war are as surely in their blood as the culture of Alderaan is in yours, little one.”

“You know a lot about us  _ Mando’ade _ , Captain Ren,” one of the Mandalorians observed.

Ahsoka nodded. “I was taught in the  _ Resol’Nare  _ as a teenager.”

“What Clan?”

Ahsoka hesitated for a quarter of a second. “Viszla.”

“Viszla? They’ve mostly retreated to Concordia now,” the Mandalorian said, motioning to their speeder. He kept talking as Bail and Leia climbed in, Ahsoka following them. “Many of them became  _ aruetiise.  _ The entire house is basically in the hands of the Countess Wren, now that Governor Saxon hasn’t the time for it.”

“So I’ve heard,” Ahsoka said easily, her hesitation forgotten. “I can only imagine Clan Viszla is still smarting from their ill-fated alliance with House Kryze.”

The Mandalorian swiped a hand down his visor in disgust, and Ahsoka’s facade crumbled a moment, showing a spark of anger.

Leia tugged on his sleeve, and he lowered his head so she could whisper into his ear. “What are they talking about, Daddy?”

Bail gave her a reassuring smile. “Just politics, my dear.”

Privately, he filed every detail of Ahsoka and the Mandalorian’s casual conversation away. Half of it meant nothing to him, but that would be easily remedied by asking Ahsoka about it later. They were now embroiled in a discussion of inheritance that was half in Mando’a, a language he didn’t even know Ahsoka spoke.

The Imperial Academy of Mandalore, once the Royal Academy of Mandalorian Government, before that the Protectors’ Academy, loomed over central Sundari, shadowed only by the Palace of Sundari itself. Cadets in black and red milled around the courtyard, leaning over datapads, sharing bowls of inedibly-spicy noodles, or wrestling playfully in the shadows of Kalevalan cherry blossoms. At least, Bail hoped it was playful.

A few cadets watched them as they passed, their faces closing off in a classically-Mandalorian look of suspicion, but most of the cadets ignored them, either used to Imperial officials passing through or simply employing the alternate Mandalorian greeting. 

“I don’t think they want us here,” Leia murmured, looking up at him with worried eyes. Bail forced away an instinctive frown as Ahsoka gave him a brief look. Leia was likely sensing the cadets’ wariness in the Force, another sign that he'd be forced to have that complicated talk with Leia sooner rather than later.

He patted her head gently. “Mandalorians don’t like strangers, but don’t worry. It is rather easy to befriend them, provided you know what to say.”

“Like  _ Captain Ren _ does?” Leia said.

“Yep,” Ahsoka replied. “Mandalorians like when you compliment them, and they  _ especially  _ like when you show you’ve made an effort to learn about them. A Mandalorian is made, not born.”

Leia nodded, and glanced back at Bail. “I don’t wanna be a Mandalorian,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Bail reassured her. “You don’t have to be one.”

They passed through the front gates and into the Great Hall. The Imperial Academy of Mandalore had retained much of its pre-Empire layout, and the entire academy was laid out with the Great Hall as its center. It could easily have fit another building inside it, with its towering ceilings painted with images of Mandalore’s last (victorious) war against the Jedi, and thick columns which very subtly directed traffic as the cadets passed from class to class. “The tapestries you see here were donated by several of the Old Clans to decorate the Academy,” their guide was saying. “These two are from our current ruling house, Clan Saxon.”

Ahsoka pointed to the third tapestry on their right. “Is that a Wren tapestry, Sergeant?”

“It is. It shows the victory of Volos Wren at Sampsa.” A man in golden armor stood among warriors in every shade of armor, pistols raised as they slammed into an army of red and black enemies. Above them towered a blue stronghold, battered banners with a familiar black-and-white owl sigil on them. This was the liberation of Kalevala’s capital, which had ended the Great Clan Wars when Bail was young.

“It’s beautiful. Which of Clan Wren’s illuminators worked on such a masterpiece?”

“It was Count Volos’s memorial tapestry, Captain Ren.”

Ahsoka nodded, then glanced at Leia. “A memorial tapestry, Leia, is one of the ways Mandalorian nobles remember their ancestors. It is crafted by the fallen warrior’s children and the Clan’s illuminator—a mix between a historian and an artist.”

“It’s beautiful,” Leia said. “But isn’t it fragile? Tapestries on Alderaan are made out of silk.”

“Memorial tapestries are woven with Mandalorian corecloth,” their guide said. “It is the same material we use to make the bodysuits of our armor, and the uniforms of all our cadets.”

Leia turned her full attention to the guide, who shifted with sudden discomfort under her gaze. “I would like to learn more about Mandalorian art, Sergeant.”

The guide recovered quickly and smiled. “I have selected three of our best cadets to interview as it pleases you, Your Highness,” he explained, beckoning them towards an eastward corridor. “One of them was training as an illuminator before being accepted into the Academy—the young Countess Sabine Wren, granddaughter of Volos Wren.”

Bail silently thanked the gods, and Ahsoka’s hand found his arm, squeezing tightly before releasing him.  _ Well, we’ve got the girl,  _ he thought.  _ Now we just need to get her out. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Ahsoka have a plan? Yes. Did it only start _after_ she'd found Sabine? Yes. They're Rebels. They don't do all this "proper and safe planning so no one ends up dead by accident" stuff.


	3. the cadet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this one, but there _is_ Mando'a due to who I am as a person. Hover over the text to read the translation, or check the end notes.

It was hard to think that not quite seventeen years ago, Ahsoka had taught in this building.

On the surface, the Imperial Academy of Mandalore and the Royal Academy of Mandalorian Government were one and the same; the same organization, the same uniform (albeit in different colors), the same tapestries on the wall. Yet there was none of the calm that had permeated the Academy in Ahsoka’s youth. She was choking on the _hate-pain-fear_ that bled from the walls of this desecrated place.

The Mandalorians were a stubborn people, she knew, and loyalty was something to be earned, typically in one of two ways: by proving you were a worthy and honorable leader, or by terrifying them into submission. The Empire had no honor, so they coerced Mandalore’s children into serving them.

Ahsoka’s skin crawled at the thought.

Leia shifted uncomfortably beside her, and Ahsoka put up shields around the young, untrained girl’s mind, filtering out the worst of the darkness that surrounded them. She would have to teach Leia to shield her own mind soon, before it started to overwhelm her, but that was a task better performed on Alderaan, out of sight of the Empire. If that golden heart of hers didn’t make her join the Rebellion, the Force would. It was a rather painful truth Ahsoka wasn’t interested in unpacking today. Seeing that Wren tapestry had unbalanced her enough.

Ahsoka shifted her cloak around her shoulders, pressing her commlink button on and off in a pattern. _RU’MAREYI KAYSH,_ she sent to Korkie. _Found her._ Mandalorian _dadita_ was more secure than Mon Calamari blink code, which was taught at all Imperial Academies, and transmitting the message in Mando’a would hopefully send the Coreworlders in the Communications tower for a loop. _Hopefully_ was the imperative word there.

Her comm beeped once, letting her know the message had been received. Ahsoka straightened slightly. They had now reached the part of the plan that involved her kidnapping and dragging a Mandalorian noble onto a ship without anyone noticing. Her lightsaber crystals hummed from their hiding place in her boots, anticipating a fight as much as she was. 

“Right through here,” their guide—Sergeant Ikara—said, opening a door into a conference room. “Cadet Wren! Attention.” There was a sharp, brief screech of a metal chair on stone floor, and Ikara finally stepped aside, letting Ahsoka see the girl she’d last seen as a toddler.

The resemblance was, frankly, uncanny. She was short, lean but muscular, her cadet’s jacket fit snuggly at her shoulders. Her cap was discarded on the conference table, half-smushed, and her shoulder-length hair was bright, fiery red leading to golden tips, which made the pale amber of her eyes stand out even more. She had a proud, angry gaze, a look that said _try me._

This was Ursa Wren’s daughter, no doubt.

Leia stared wide-eyed at her, a soft blush coloring her face. Sabine looked her over, frowning unimpressively. “ _Vaar’ika,_ " she stated. “ _V_ _al v’epar kaysh._ ”

“Cadet Wren,” Ikara warned. Sabine moved only her eyes to glare at him, but it was clearly a moot point.

She bowed, her jaw working.

Ahsoka lifted her hand, drawing two fingers across Ikara’s face. “You don’t need to be in here,” she said, imbuing her words with the Force. It was harder to influence Mandalorians than the average Imp, but Ahsoka had never lost a battle of wills and she wasn’t going to start now.

“I don’t have to be in here,” Ikara echoed.

“You’re going to go to the teachers’ lounge,” Ahsoka continued. “Get yourself a caf. You deserve it.”

“I’m going to go to the teachers’ lounge,” Ikara repeated, and started towards the door.

“And you’re going to give me your keycard.”

Ikara pulled it from his breast pocket. “And I’m going to give you my keycard.”

Once Ikara was gone, Ahsoka turned back to Bail, who had watched the proceedings with what seemed to be a mix of growing amusement and bafflement. Sabine looked between them. “Wh...what the kriff was that?!”

Leia blinked. “Oh. You _do_ speak Basic.”

“ _Laandur aruetii! Ni Jorhaa’i birov johase! Ori’shya gar!_ "

“That’s enough, Sabine,” Ahsoka chided. “Your mother sent us here to rescue you. At least _try_ to be civil?”

Sabine’s eyes widened. “So she _did_ get my message,” she said, and carded a hand through her hair.

Ahsoka sighed. Of course Ursa hadn’t given any indication she’d heard Sabine. That would have made things simple, and far be it for Ursa Wren to simplify _anything_. “My name is Ahsoka.” She held out a hand to Sabine.

Sabine raised her eyebrows. “ _You’re_ Ahsoka Tano?”

Ahsoka snorted. “What, is Ursa still talking about me? We broke up years ago.”

Bail gave her a look of wild alarm, and Sabine launched into another obscenities-laced tirade. Ahsoka groaned. “It was a _joke!_ "

Bail gave a heavy sigh of relief. “No more jokes.”

“No more jokes!” Sabine agreed, feathers still ruffled. Leia glanced between the three of them and raised her eyebrows in a very passable imitation of Queen Breha’s famous _I’m surrounded by idiots_ face. She crossed her arms. “Are we breaking her out or not?”

“We are,” Ahsoka said. “Come, Cadet Wren. Take us on a tour. I’d like to see The Duchess, first.”

Sabine’s gaze went cold. “ _No._ "

“We need to destroy it, Sabine,” Ahsoka insisted.

Sabine fished a detonator out of her pocket. “All I need to do to _destroy_ it is press this button,” she said angrily. “The plans, too. I just want to get out of here!”

Her anger was a shockwave in the Force, shoving her and everyone else away. Ahsoka stepped back, putting herself between Sabine and Leia, silently cursing herself for not planning for this.

“Lady Wren,” Bail rumbled, undeterred. “I know you want to leave as quickly as possible. But you need to stay calm so we can make that happen. Okay?”

Sabine’s shoulders slumped, and she suddenly looked very young. “My mom and dad,” she said, “and my brother. My clan. Will they be okay? If I…?”

“Yes,” Ahsoka said. “They’re already in hiding. They’re waiting for you.”

“Okay.” Sabine took a deep breath, and Ahsoka saw Ursa in her again, like some sort of ghost. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Here was the hard part: getting Sabine out the front door without a firefight that would incriminate the Organas.

Sabine had disappeared briefly, just long enough for Ahsoka to start panicking, before rematerializing with a duffel in hand. “You think I’m gonna leave without my armor?” Sabine said, annoyed.

Frankly, Ahsoka had forgotten Sabine even _had_ armor at her age.

“Dragging a duffel around isn’t exactly inconspicuous,” Leia pointed out coldly.

This set Sabine off again. “ _Dar’kar’tayla aruetii! Ni beskar’gam tayli ruyot b’aliit!_ ”

“She doesn’t _know_ , Sabine,” Ahsoka said, trying to calm her. “Leia, Mandalorian armor is a precious heirloom. Sabine’s armor may well be hundreds of years old. It’s as much a part of her as her name.”

“Five hundred,” Sabine mumbled. “It’s five hundred years old.”

Leia’s shock and sudden shame sang in the Force. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“It might be better if you wear your armor,” Bail suggested. “Unless that is too unusual.”

Sabine frowned. “Not at all. We’re Mandalorians. They told us not to wear it today because, well…”

“Because _aruetiise_ were visiting?” Ahsoka guessed.

Sabine nodded, and started unbuttoning her jacket. Bail made a noise of surprise, but Sabine was wearing a shirt underneath it. No. She was wearing her bodysuit under her uniform. She put her armor on swiftly, revealing her helmet last. Its dome was a dark magenta color, with Clan Wren’s eyes detailed in a darker purple. Colorful and unique, but still—very Wren. She pulled a backpack out of the duffel—she really had prepared for everything—and stuffed her cadet’s uniform inside, pushing the duffel lamely under the conference table. “Let’s go,” she said shortly.

“Let’s go indeed,” Ahsoka said. “You were already going to break out on your own, weren’t you?”

Sabine scowled. “What? Did you think I was just going to _stay here?_ And let them use my invention to slaughter my people? You’re funny.”

“So what’s your plan?” Leia asked.

“Blow the Duchess up and run like a strill out of Hell?”

Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re not doing that.”

“Why not? I’m a fast runner.”

“Why don’t we just walk out the front door?” Bail asked. “She’s a cadet giving us a tour. Once we’re out, she blows the Duchess up, and she can slip away in the chaos.”

Sabine blinked. “You’re just...setting me loose?”

“Of course not,” Ahsoka said, unable to disguise her horror. “I would never. But we have to take a different ship to keep the Senator from being labeled a sympathizer.”

“A sympathizer to what?”

“Who. An Imperial defector.” Leia sized Sabine up, her earlier shyness forgotten. “And not a very impressive one, at that!”

Ahsoka grabbed Sabine by the shoulder before she could give Leia a well-deserved punch in the face. “Leia Organa!” Bail scolded.

“Not very impressive,” Sabine muttered, and pulled her detonator off her belt. “I’ll show you impressive. _Laandur aruetii._ ” 

The school shook violently, knocking an unprepared Leia and Bail on their backs. Ahsoka had to close her hands tightly to keep herself from summoning her lightsabers. “ _Sabine Wren_ ,” she growled. “If that wasn’t the most Mandalorian thing I’d ever seen, I would be beating your head against the wall.”

Sabine gave a lopsided grin. “Walk and talk, Miss Tano.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Vaar'ika. Val v'epar kaysh._ \- "Runt. They'll eat her alive."  
>  _Laandur aruetii! Ni Jorhaa’i birov johase! Ori’shya gar!_ \- "Delicate [insult] foreigner! I speak many languages! More than you do!" NOTE: Mandalorians consider delicateness--that is to say, breakable-ness, as a severe character flaw. They also consider non-Mandalorians-- _aruetiise_ \--to be inferior to them.  
>  _Dar’kar’tayla aruetii! Ni beskar’gam tayli ruyot b’aliit!_ \- "Ignorant foreigner! My armor is part of [lit. holds] my clan's history!"


	4. the sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic description of a massacre, referenced coercion of a child, referenced genocide.**

Spring had come to Krownest. The birds the planet had been named for called from their perches on the spruces that surrounded the Wren Stronghold. Tristan watched them idly through the large windows of the stronghold’s sunroom, where he took his lessons.

“Tristan,” came his mother’s weary voice. “Are you listening?”

She was leaned over his megapad, tapping the stylus’ eraser against the edge of the screen. She was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. He blinked down at the math problem she’d written on the pad. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “How would you start solving this, Tristan?”

He frowned down at it. “Well, first we have to get the Y by itself—”

There was a knock on the door. “Oh, for the love of—” Ursa muttered, but reigned in her irritation quickly. “Come in.”

It was Akane Bast, a Wren vassal and their current Comms specialist. She bowed swiftly. “Lady Sabine is transmitting on her emergency frequency, Countess.”

_That_ was unexpected. Ursa stood, her stylus slipping forgotten from her fingers; Tristan caught it before it could roll onto the floor. “What is the message?”

Akane shifted uneasily. “It’s encrypted, my lady. I assumed it was meant for your eyes only.”

Tristan lowered his head as if studying the problem on his pad and closed his eyes. He reached out with the Force, slipping unnoticed into Akane’s head and drawing the nervousness out of her. Fear in her warriors made his mother irritable, not to mention nervous herself. He felt Ursa’s disapproval shadow her thanks.

She often warned him not to use his gifts like this, in front of others. It wasn't so much a matter of keeping it secret from the rest of the Clan—the Wrens kept no secrets from their warriors—as it was a matter of keeping it from the Empire. 

Ursa had never been a Jedi, but she had felt them die, bloodily and needlessly, ten thousand voices crying out in panic. Not that she had ever told him that.

“That was the right choice, my warrior,” Ursa said, resting a hand on Akane’s shoulder. “Tristan. That problem had best be solved when I return.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said, and she let quiet fondness echo down their bond.

The problem wasn’t difficult, even if he hadn’t been paying attention when his mother explained it to him. He didn’t finish it though, because on the other end of their bond, Ursa’s iron-strong grip on her emotions slipped. It was only for a moment, like a sharp breath, but for a single, drawn-out second her horrified anguish was as much his as it was hers. His stylus snapped in half in his hand, and he stood so quickly his chair tipped and fell. By then his mother was gone from his mind, save for a rough self-directed hatred at such a slip. 

Tristan weighed his options and summoned the cavalry. “Father!”

Alrich Wren’s studio was the next room over. It had once simply been the other half of the sunroom, until Tristan’s mother had gotten tired of having every inch of the sunroom covered in paint, and had sequestered her husband’s artistic pursuits to their own space. He burst through the door, still drying his hands with a towel. His comm was screeching insistently. 

“Come on,” he said, dropping the towel on the table. Tristan had to jog to keep up with him. It was a straight shot to the Comms room, and they ran into his aunt Sasha on the way, still stomping snow out of her boots. The shrill beep of her comm was muffled by her helmet, which she had tucked under an arm.

“This better be good,” Sasha muttered. “Jonah was _just_ getting a hang of his jetpack.”

“I don’t think ‘good’ is the word I would use,” Tristan replied. “‘Apocalyptic’, perhaps?”

Alrich and Sasha exchanged looks. Tristan got the feeling they knew something he didn’t.

When they entered, the Comms table was projecting a schematic, a cross-section of some sort of doughnut-shaped device. Tristan squinted at the writing. “An Arc-Pulse Generator? Sabine said those were impossible to build.”

“They’ve named it The Duchess,” Ursa said. There was a brief, heavy pause. “It reacts with beskar.”

“I thought Arc-Pulses were only being looked at as heat generators,” Sasha said. “Why would it need to react with beskar? Surely making it react to plastoid is infinitely cheaper.”

Ursa hesitated again. “Tristan. Wait outside.”

“What?”

Alrich rested a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to your mother.”

Tristan felt his face grow hot. “I’m in the clan too, you know.” 

His mother reached for him through their bond, but he dug his heels in. “You can come back,” she acquiesced, “after I’ve spoken to your father and aunt.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, little one.”

The hall outside the Comms room was quiet, empty save for the guards on either side of the door. They gazed forward stoically, their faces obscured by their familiar helmets, decorated with the golden Wren eyes. 

One day Tristan would have armor like theirs, reforged from the armor that had once been his grandfather’s. It had stood on its stand in the Wren armory for twenty years, waiting for a son of Clan Wren to claim it. When Tristan put his hands on it, he could feel the vague impressions of a long-ago war, the rattle of blaster fire, a deadly mix of panic and exhilaration at the chaos of the battlefield. He would leave his own mark on it, just as his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-great-grandfather had done.

There was a crash from inside the Comms room. The guards turned their heads at the same time, which would have been comical—or creepy—had Tristan not been so distracted by what he was feeling through the Force.

It was his father, or, rather, they were his emotions, loud and uncontrolled and panicked. They had a jagged quality that his father’s mind always had, like they didn’t quite know how to be feelings. Alrich had sustained a rather serious brain injury in service to the Death Watch, and his mind felt like it, like it had been put back together mostly-correctly, but with random pieces out of place. When he got upset, which wasn’t often, it was hard for him to pull himself back together.

The door didn’t yield to his biometrics at first. Tristan growled and tried again, and slipped through the still-opening door to run to his father and wrap his arms tightly around him. Alrich returned the hug with equal intensity, burying his face in Tristan’s hair. Tristan felt a sob shake his father’s lean frame.

“I-I don’t understand,” his aunt Sasha was saying. She was equal parts horrified and furious. “Who could order such a thing? Who would _build it_?!”

He heard his mother give a soft, defeated sigh. “Sabine built it,” she said, and Tristan recoiled at the truth of it, vicious and painful as a blade to the gut. 

He pulled away from his father, who turned away, hiding the tears on his face. “Show me,” he demanded, turning to his mother. “Show me what you showed them.”

Ursa looked stricken. “Tristan—I—” She closed her mouth, and it occurred to Tristan he’d never seen her lost for words.

“He should know, big sister,” Sasha said. “He is one of us.” _He bears this burden now, too,_ echoed around his head in her voice. She wasn’t Force-sensitive, not like he and his mother were, but she had a talent for projecting nevertheless.

“He’s one of _them_ , too,” Alrich added quietly. Ursa flinched at his voice, but didn’t reach for him. She turned back to the Comms table, wrapping her arms around herself and glaring at the controls with such ferocity they could have burst into flames.

“Fine,” she spat after a long moment spent mulling it over, and stabbed at the buttons angrily. The table winked back to life. His mother went through the files swiftly, already knowing where the object of her search was.

“Is that Melisende?” he asked when she pulled the holovid up.

Alrich bowed his head. “Just watch, son.”

The camera jolted as it approached the gates of the Priest Stronghold, a black ziggurat that made Tristan understand his father’s obsession with anything brightly colorful. “It’s on a walker,” he observed. “Why is there a walker trying to enter the Priest Stronghold?”

“Please hold your questions until the end of the presentation, nephew,” Sasha said flatly.

He noted she wasn’t looking at the holovid, and neither were his parents. His mother had gone to hover by his father, who was pressed against the far wall, trying to get as far from the holovid as possible. Tristan couldn’t tell if it was the light that had turned his father’s eyes so dull and black.

He was having second thoughts about this.

The gates of the Priest Stronghold were blown open, and stormtroopers rushed in, meeting deadly Priest resistance. Priest warriors in jetpacks swooped around the camera’s vision, moving too quickly for Tristan to identify their markings. A blessing, he supposed, if he was about to watch them die. “Why stormtroopers?” he murmured to himself. “The Empire knows they’re useless against a properly-trained Mandalorian. Why not the Supercommandos?”

The camera tilted down, and the bottom of the holovid turned into white static. The warriors fighting in the courtyard stopped and stared at the weapon as it charged. Tristan felt his heart rise into his throat. _Don’t just stand there,_ he thought with the horror of hindsight. _Run._

Clan Priest activated their jetpacks, but it was too late. Pale purple lightning shot out from the walker, branching from armor to armor. The warriors—his family, loyal Mandalorians—dropped to their knees, a light emanating from within them, their spines arched in agony. They disintegrated, one by one, leaving only scorched pieces of armor and ashes. The stormtroopers turned back to the walker, like a child looked to their parent for guidance. Or perhaps like a shocked crowd stared at a killer. The holovid ended.

Tristan looked to his mother for something—comfort, reassurance—and found only bleak uncertainty. He turned back to the final still of the holovid, the stormtroopers among black silhouettes that had once been people, and steeled himself. He would not let the Empire’s cruelty break him. He was a Mandalorian, and Mandalorians were not _afraid_.

“Why did she send us this?” he asked.

“Sabine wants to defect,” Ursa said, coming to stand by him. She was studying him with what might have been pride on her face. “She’s being held hostage so she can keep working on the Duchess.”

Tristan turned back to his father, who had regained some of his composure, but remained against the wall with Aunt Sasha. “Are we going to help her?”

Sasha and his father exchanged looks again. “We haven’t decided,” Sasha said.

“She’s clan,” Ursa snapped. “And my daughter.”

“She built an abomination,” Sasha shot back. “Her own blood are dead because of what she created.”

“She had no _choice._ ”

“We always have a choice,” Alrich said quietly.

Tristan didn’t have to turn to know the look on his mother’s face. “ _Alrich!_ ”

“She’s not safe there,” Tristan stated. “I’ve heard stories from the other kids. About what happens to cadets that step out of line.”

“No,” Alrich agreed. “But we cannot put the entirety of our clan in danger for her. No one held a blaster to her head and made her build this.”

“You don’t know that,” Ursa argued.

Tristan was mystified by this role swap. It was no secret that Sabine was closer to their father than to their mother, and it was always Ursa getting on her case while Alrich and Tristan defended her. To see his father so willing to abandon her... 

“I won’t leave her there,” he insisted. “She isn’t just clan. She’s _family_ , and she needs our help. If the Empire kills her, can you live with what you’ve done?”

Alrich stabbed his arm at the holo. “Clan Priest is _gone_ because of her!”

“The Empire did that, not Sabine,” Tristan insisted.

“Even if we help her,” Sasha pointed out, “the Empire will pursue her. They will come to Krownest.”

Ursa drummed her fingers on her chin, deep in thought. “What if it’s not us?” she asked.

Alrich raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

She reached for the frontmost pocket on her belt and pulled a small coin free. Tristan had only seen it once before, but he recognized it immediately. It held a data chip inside that stored only a single, triple-scrambled comm frequency. The signet of Clan Kryze caught the light as she held it out to Alrich. “They owe us a blood debt.”

“This is worth more than a blood debt.”

Ursa met his gaze levelly. “Bo will do it. I know she will.”

In his father’s eyes, Tristan thought he saw anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I'm tempted to translate all this dialogue into Mando'a for practice. I wouldn't do that to y'all though but just imagine all this happening in Mando'a.  
> ANYWAY: complicated family dynamics. we are having them. RIP Alrich's family


End file.
